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Stephen Of Steens; A Tale Of Wild Justice, a fiction by Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch |
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Chapter 3 |
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_ CHAPTER III "Pack of fools!" growled old Malachi as the thump-thump of the drum drew nearer. He rose and shifted his stool to a corner, for the way to the back premises lay through the shop. Roger looked forth into the sunny street, blinked, and, picking up a pair of pincers, returned to his watch. The band came slowly down the street and halted outside--still in full blast; for between the Market House and the Bowling Green there must be no pause in the Flora-dance or its music. And presently the Mayor himself thrust his red face in at the shop-door. "Good-mornin'!" he nodded, jigging away with his feet. "You'll lev' us come through, I suppose?" "Welcome," grunted Roger. "And, darn'ee, take care o' my cabbages!" added Malachi. "You ruined half a score of 'em last year with your May-games." "Cab--" Here the inexorable tune forced His Worship to face about and twirl his partner. "Cabbages?" he resumed. "You dare to use such a word to me, you saucy rascal? Why, I've sent better men than you to prison for less!" "I don't doubt it," retorted Malachi. "But King George is above us, and holds even a Mayor responsible for what he treads on. Dance along out, that's a dear man, and if you want to be frolicsome, keep to the paths." "Of all the unpublicspirited houses I've danced into this day, this here's the unpublicspiritedest!" exclaimed the Mayor. He had reached by this time the door at the back of the shop, and would have said more; but again the tune took him by the legs compelling him to twirl his partner, and, twirling her, he was swept out of sight. Roger Stephen still pored over his watch. Several of the dancers--had the will to do it been enough--were minded to stop and rebuke him for his churlishness. A tradesman at work in Helleston on Flora-day in the morning was a scandalous sight. But Roger stood six-foot-three in his socks, and had been a famous wrestler in his youth. The giddy throng went by, his hunched shoulders expressing his contempt of it. But when all the dancers had paraded through the shop and out into Malachi's cabbage garden, a man appeared in the entrance and said-- "Arise, Master Roger, and dance--or otherwise as your feelings incline you! For Doctor Gaye sends down his compliments, and your father's had a stroke." Roger Stephen dropped his pincers. "A stroke? Is it serious?" "Middlin'," answered the man, a woodcutter on the Steens estate. "He took it at three in the morning and never said another word, but passed away a little under two hours agone; and the funeral's on Thursday." Roger laid down the watch and stood erect. The band in the street still thumped out the Flora tune. "Malachi," said he, "can you dance the Flora?" "Bejimbers!" answered Malachi, "the old man did his best to spoil my legs, but I feel like trying." _ |
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